Four Thousand Miles

For passers-by travelling down the lane the cheer of an orange
glow from the cottage window brings respite from the dreary grey
Ohio countryside. Louise sits at her desk in quiet solitude, just
a soft tapping of keys on the computer. A warmth emanates from
the log fire and a mottle of coloured lights dance on the ceiling
from a small Christmas tree that sits neatly in place on the
occasional table between two comfortable arm chairs. Under the
tree is bare. No presents placed there. No family left, no
sweetheart, no children.

In England every window is alight with fairy lights blinking, an
electric powerhouse for onlookers. The inside is full of chatter
and the clatter of metal on plates. The roasted parsnip's travel
around the table from pink party hat to red, green and purple. A
cracker explodes its contents landing in the gravy dish. Susan
fishes it out, wipes it and places it onto a finger with
excitement. The receiving of a bright green plastic ring as a
gift outweighs the black plastic moustache at this time of year.
The seven foot tree radiates heat from its one hundred flashing
lights and multi-coloured baubles. A mountain of boxes: big bows,
wrapping paper and sparkling tags fill the space underneath
calling out to be grabbed, torn and devoured by trembling hands.
A screen sits in the corner surrounded in tinsel with a single
red light.

Louise raises a glass of red wine, savouring its fruity taste and
then nibbles on a mince pie she made yesterday. The homely sound
of the crackle of splitting wood breaks the silence sporadically,
as well as her concentration. She looks out of the window. Snow
starts to fall, fine floating flakes building a triangle of snow
sitting on the window sill. A branch on the tree shudders as it
turns from green to white. A deeper silence urges from the snow
blanketed lawn. Pylons spark as cold snow caresses hot wires
travelling miles over the fields.

Susan raises a glass, 'Merry Christmas ', as every voice at the
table is followed by the chink of crystal with bubbling
champagne. The turkey is carved as thirteen voyeurs wait with
mouths watering. They add crimson Cranberry sauce as the
finishing touch to the mountainous plates of food, later to be
wasted, eyes always bigger than their bellies.

The silence is deafening in the garden as a bird lands on the
bird table and grabs a seed before flying away for shelter. A cat
curls up on the chair for an afternoon kip, whilst enjoying the
warmth and cosiness. A loud finishing tap and a beep as the
message leaves this cosy but isolated cottage. Louise sits back
and takes another sip.

In the corner a light blue glow isn't seen, the quiet beep isn't
heard. The room is filled with a raucous noise of silly jokes
and laughter. Patiently it waits as the flamed Christmas pudding
arrives and bites are taken into fresh mince pies straight from
the box with a dollop of cream. Then the humming spray of the
dishwasher calms the celebrations into a hush. The oldies fall
asleep to the Queen's speech and kids trail upstairs to chill out
their new technical gadgets. Susan has time to stop and sits down
in the corner, screen bright. She smiles as she reads 'Merry
Christmas from four thousand miles away'. She takes a sip from
her coffee cup. 'Merry Christmas Louise'.